My kids give me the balance to live right.

Host: The morning sun broke through the thin fog rolling off the harbor, painting the dockside café in pale gold. The sound of seagulls mingled with the clatter of cups and voices, and somewhere nearby, a child laughed — high, bright, unburdened. The smell of coffee and salt hung in the air, grounding the world in its quiet rhythm.

At a small table near the window, Jack sat in his usual way — jacket half open, sleeves rolled, hands wrapped around a steaming mug as if it might keep his thoughts from scattering. Jeeny arrived moments later, her hair pulled back, her eyes carrying that quiet glow of someone who’d already been up for hours — the kind of light that only comes from being needed.

She smiled as she sat down, a small bag of apples at her side, one of them rolling out and bumping against the table leg.

Jeeny: “My kids were in the kitchen this morning — trying to make me breakfast. Burnt toast, spilled milk, orange juice on the floor. But you know what, Jack? It was perfect.”

Jack: Chuckling softly. “Perfect chaos, you mean.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But in that chaos, there’s something pure. Celine Dion once said, ‘My kids give me the balance to live right.’ I didn’t understand that until recently. They pull you back to what matters. They make you… human again.”

Host: Jack’s eyes followed the steam from his cup, rising and fading in the sunlight. His jaw tightened, not in anger, but in the quiet way a man guards something fragile inside.

Jack: “I don’t know, Jeeny. Sounds nice on paper. But life doesn’t balance — it just tips one way or the other. You’re either chasing survival or chasing peace, and both cost too damn much.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem isn’t the chase, Jack. Maybe it’s forgetting who we’re chasing it for.”

Jack: He leaned back, the chair creaking softly. “You’re saying children fix that? They don’t balance your life — they take it. Your time, your sleep, your freedom. You trade everything just to worry more.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the beauty of it. They take everything unnecessary. They strip you down to what’s real. When my daughter asks me, ‘Why are you sad?’ — she’s not asking as a therapist, she’s asking because she sees me. No filters, no excuses. That’s balance, Jack — being seen for who you are, even when you can’t see it yourself.”

Host: A seagull landed on the railing, tilting its head as if listening. The sunlight flickered through the waves, throwing reflections that danced across their faces. The morning was bright, but the conversation had weight — a kind of quiet gravity that bent everything around it.

Jack: “Maybe that works for you. But I’ve seen parents lose themselves completely. They become shadows of who they were. They give, and give, until there’s nothing left to stand on. How’s that balance?”

Jeeny: Her expression softened, but her tone sharpened with conviction. “That’s because they forget to share the weight. Balance doesn’t mean sacrifice, Jack. It means exchange. You give your time, and you get meaning. You give your freedom, and you get purpose. Isn’t that the only trade that’s ever made sense?”

Jack: Scoffing quietly. “Meaning? Purpose? You sound like a Hallmark card. People don’t need purpose; they need to pay rent.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you sitting here every morning, staring out that window like the world owes you an answer?”

Host: The words landed like a quiet punch. Jack’s hand froze mid-air, his fingers tightening around the handle of the mug. He looked at her — not angry, not defensive — just caught.

Jack: “Because… I don’t know. Maybe I’m trying to remember what it felt like to be someone’s reason for getting up in the morning.”

Jeeny: Her voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s what kids do, Jack. They don’t just give you balance — they remind you you’re still capable of love.”

Host: The diner’s door opened, letting in a burst of cold air and the faint sound of a child’s laughter from outside. A young father walked in holding a toddler, who clutched a small toy car in his hand, its paint chipped, but still loved. The boy’s eyes lit up at the sight of the jukebox, and his father smiled in that tired, grateful way — like the world was hard, but for now, enough.

Jack watched them — that simple exchange, that fragile moment of connection — and something shifted in his face.

Jack: “You ever think it’s unfair? That kids inherit a world like this — full of wars, noise, exhaustion? We give them love, sure, but what kind of balance can love hold against all that?”

Jeeny: “The kind that keeps the world from collapsing. Every generation lives in chaos, Jack. But love — especially love for your children — it’s the one thing that keeps the chaos from becoming meaninglessness. It’s what makes us try again.”

Host: The steam from their cups curled together in the light, intertwining like two small threads of smoke refusing to drift apart.

Jack: “So you think kids save us?”

Jeeny: “Not save us. They remind us we’re still worth saving.”

Jack: “Even when we fail them?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. Because they forgive faster than we deserve. They give us second chances before we even ask.”

Host: A long pause settled between them — not of tension, but of quiet recognition. The kind that only comes when two people stop arguing and start hearing each other. The noise of the café faded — the clinking cups, the voices, the seagulls — leaving only the sound of the ocean outside, breathing against the shore.

Jack: He finally smiled, small but real. “Maybe Celine was right. Maybe they are the balance — not because they make life easier, but because they make it harder in all the right ways.”

Jeeny: Laughing softly. “Exactly. They’re the chaos that steadies you. The storm that teaches you to stand still.”

Host: Jack’s gaze drifted toward the window, where the father and child from before now stood outside, the boy pressing his hand to the glass, leaving a tiny print. For a moment, Jack’s reflection aligned perfectly with the boy’s, as if time itself had folded — one man, one child, one echo of what had been and what could still be.

The sunlight shifted again, cutting through the mist. The harbor glittered. The world, fragile but full, seemed to breathe.

And in that breath, the balance returned — not the kind that keeps you still, but the kind that keeps you moving.

For that is what children do: they don’t bring you peace; they give you a reason to keep chasing it.